


Options

by Pansychic27213



Series: Fanfic Transfers (2017 Edition) [1]
Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Angst, Attempted Suicide, But it gets reset, Crying, Drama, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Narrator does not remember the resets, Narrator is actually pretty powerful, Narrator is confused, Old fanfic transfer from Fanfiction.net, Stanley gives up, Stanley is done, Stanley is soft, Stanley remembers the resets, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansychic27213/pseuds/Pansychic27213
Summary: This is the story of a man named Stanley. Someone has turned him into the main character of a game with no true end. As the cycle wears on and on, Stanley struggles to keep hope alive and keep going.
Relationships: The Narrator & Stanley (The Stanley Parable)
Series: Fanfic Transfers (2017 Edition) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614721
Kudos: 82





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**Author's Note:**

> Originally Published: 02/12/2017

-{}-

Stanley blinked.

He looked up and around, finding himself in office 427 once again. Everything was placed just where it had always been, and his computer screen flashed at him hauntingly. The steady ticking of the clock seem to cut through the Narrator's voice, but Stanley didn't have to listen to be able to understand what was being said. He had heard the words so many times they had been etched across his being, body and soul. He lived this same existence, repeating and never-ending.

A strange hiccup-like sound burst from his throat, and his damaged vocal chords protested violently. One of his hands gently soothed his neck and he stood and left the office. Purely out of habit, he turned off computers and organized papers as he continued his short trek onward. He stopped for a moment, considering the many potted plants of the office and wondering when they had last been watered. It could have been years ago, as this single, numbing day had been repeating for years.

A cold sort of weight was added to the sizable lump in his chest. He swallowed and felt the tips of his fingers and toes tingling. His shoulders slid downwards, tugged and yanked at relentlessly by emotion. Another odd sigh escaped his lips, as he decided to stop for a while and observe a painting. His body suddenly weighed several tons, and he considered laying down and never getting up again. He pushed though the murky feeling, trudging down the hallway until he came to the second most familiar room in his life.

The Narrator's lines jingled out above him, and the two doors swung open, giving him a choice that he never actually made for himself. Every path his 'chose' led to a predetermined ending, never bringing this miserable game to a close. The left door winked invitingly, enticing him with thoughts of funny messages in a conference room and a gorgeous red office and a single moment of freedom and happiness. The red door smirked slyly, offering a lounge and many routes of rebellion. There was even a chance for a jump, a single moment of darkness and peace.

Something lurched in Stanley's heart. Suddenly, the room seemed too small, too dark, too- too everything. It was cold, and heartless, and empty, and deceptive- He wanted to jump. He wanted to jump over and over again until the memory of anything else faded away and he was finally erased, if only because the Narrator finally lost faith in him. He sank to his knees slowly, the enormous weight of his own body forcing his legs out from under him. A sob leapt up in his throat, and his vocal chords _shrieked_ at him. His eyes flooded, and he wrapped his arms around himself, struggling for something, anything-

"Stanley?" The Narrator's voice was gentle, uncertain. "Are you alright? What's happening?" The sound of the succinct masculine voice caused something in Stanley to shatter, and he collapsed forward, wheezing and weeping into the carpet. "What's going on? Are you okay? Stanley? Stanley?! Respond to me! Something! Anything-! You don't have to choose! We can go back- We can... We can..."

The Narrator's voice faded away, and Stanley continued to poor his heart into the itchy carpet until his lungs ached and his blotchy red face was straining and he physically couldn't produce another tear. These were the moments he wished he could speak. He desperately wanted to contact the Narrator, to invoke some change, any change really. But he was as mute as an inanimate object, and the caps never came off the pens, and the computers never connected to the printers, and even when he tried to write in blood across the wall, the liquid disappeared as soon as it left his body.

Like a glass figurine, Stanley pushed himself up and softly made his way to his office. He closed the door silently behind him and crawled into the corner under his desk. There, in the flickering desk light and the dust, he curled up, still vainly wrapping his arms around himself, and waited for the Narrator to reset.

-{}-

Stanley blinked.

He looked up and around, finding himself in office 427 once again. Everything was placed just where it had always been, and his computer screen flashed at him hauntingly. The Narrator's words rang out, clear as a bell, but they seemed so sharp that Stanley found himself unable to focus on them or their meaning. Slowly, he pushed himself up from his desk and staggered out into the brightly lit office area. The Narrator continued to talk, doing what he did best, seeming to have forgotten everything that had happened before the reset. Stanley had accepted this as part of his life, and so he continued forward.

He pressed onward, charging straight through the door on the right, sprinting through the lounge room, and refusing to stop running until he came to the lift. The only reason he stopped running was because he slipped, landing on his wrist and sliding on to the lift. The grated machinery chugged steadily forward, but the Narrator did not deliver his usual dialogue.

"Stanley?" He questioned, instead. "Are you alright? They was quite the fall you took there. Is everything okay?" Stanley tried to push himself up, wanting to take action and leap over the side of the lift. But his arms wobbled under his weight like jello, and his wrist cried out, sending him clattering down again. He hissed and pulled the damaged appendage to his chest. He cradled it best he could, hoping to alleviate some of the pain.

The lift stopped suddenly, hovering in the middle of the cargo area. "Stanley! You're injured!" The Narrator exclaimed helpfully. "Oh dear... This is a problem..." Stanley huffed, nodding unsteadily. He reached out with his good hand and began to drag himself towards the edge. "What on earth are you doing? Stanley...? No... No! Stanley, stop! Stop it, Stanley! STOP!"

But Stanley hurtled head-first towards the concrete floor, and for a single moment, everything was weightless and dark. Peaceful.

-{}-

Stanley blinked.

He looked up and around, finding himself in office 427 once again. His desk lamp flickered, and his monitor winked at him. The Narrator's voice rolled over the building in gentle waves. Stanley shivered and wondered how much longer this cycle would continue. He wondered if he would simply collapse in insanity, or if that had already happened. He wondered if he could ever be truly free...

Stanley stood up. He made his way through the office, tugging on doors and trying to find a water cooler so he could finally water those plants. He knew there was a vending machine in the lounge, but it never worked. Besides, plants probably shouldn't absorb soda. He dorked around with the copy machine for a bit, though he rarely got it to do anything. Eventually, he found himself presented with those same two doors.

The Narrator said his bit, and Stanley dutifully stepped through the door on the left. As he walked through the hallways and rooms and stairwells, the Narrator almost seemed to be praising him with the instructions. A warmth filled Stanley, and he wondered if he someday might meet the Narrator. Stanley followed each direction perfectly, all the way up to loading himself in his boss's 'secret' elevator. But, just as the Mind Control Facility came into view and Stanley took that step towards it, his pant-leg got twisted in something and sent him crashing to the ground. His ankle popped obscenely, and he groaned weakly.

"Stanley?" The Narrator question. "Are you alright? That was quite the fall you took there. Is everything okay?" Stanley slowly bent himself around and worked to extricate his pant-leg. He grimaced and choked out a gasp, pain shooting up his leg like a strike of lightning. "Stanley! You're injured!" Tears welled up in Stanley's eyes. He rolled back and laid on the floor, content to remain trapped like this for a while. He tried to take deep breaths and calm his wildly racing emotions. "Oh dear... This is a problem..."

'Stop it!' Stanley wanted to scream. 'Stop talking! Stop forgetting! Stop this hell!' He hiccuped, and some long-forgotten gesture came to his mind suddenly. He didn't know what it meant, but he let his hand slide through the motion a few times. It comforted him.

"'Please', Stanley signed," the Narrator intoned, compelled to narrate his story, even when it was in shambles. "'Please. Please. Please.' On and on Stanley signed this, but he had no idea what he was begging for." The Narrator was silent for a moment. "What have I done wrong? I couldn't have given the wrong directions..." The rustling of papers echoed through the hallway. "No, no, everything was absolutely correct. Stanley, you're going to have to tell me what went wrong. I can't understand why you're acting like this; I'm only trying to lead you to happine-" The Narrator cut himself off as he jumped to continue his story, "Stanley's heart ached tremendously. 'The poor Narrator always forgets,' Stanley thought. 'He will never know how many times I've found this ending, or how many times I've found another.' The Narrator gained a sudden impression of Stanley's memory- There was pain and desperation and a sudden fall before perfect darkness..."

The Narrator sounded shaken. More papers rustled, a pen clattered to the floor somewhere, and rapid clicks resounded from a keyboard. "T-That's not right," the Narrator fumbled. "I can't be part of my own story now. That's ridiculous!" As the Narrator continued to search for an answer, Stanley laid on the floor, helpless and cold. His skin was starting to prickle from the chilled metal, and everything seemed to ache suddenly. "Multiple endings... Absurd!"

"'I'm terribly lonely,' Stanley thought, miserable and in agony," the Narrator mumbled even as he continued to ruffle through papers and files. "'I can't remember what a human face looks like,' he realized. 'What do I look like? Am I really human?' But Stanley didn't really care about these thoughts. He was thinking them to amuse himself, and hearing the Narrator say them aloud was almost even more entertaining." The Narrator huffed. "Stop purposefully making me do that!"

Stanley shook his head. He wasn't trying to do that honestly. He had no control over it, but he wouldn't lie and say it wasn't true. Instead, he brought his hand up to his face. He studied it, wondering at how simple it seemed, how it seemed to lack any signs of change, though it was littered with small wrinkles and ink stains. In all his time in this world, his hands had never changed. Had he? Was he a different person now than the first time he played through this? He couldn't imagine it to be so, but it was entirely possible.

"You aren't really lonely, are you, Stanley?" the Narrator questioned, suddenly uncertain. "Your coworkers have only been gone a little while, and you've got me. You can't possibly have forgotten what humans are meant to look like. And there can't be anything I've forgotten because I've got the whole script for my story right here! And another thing, Stanley, there can't be multiple endings because I only designed one!"

"'Yes,' Stanley thought. 'You planned for one, perfect endings. But the end is never really the end, is it? Relentlessly, I find myself back in that little office, starting this story over once again.' A sense of guilt overwhelmed Stanley for a moment, but he bravely continued to send his thoughts to the Narrator. 'Many times I've disobeyed you. The endings are always worse that way, but I'm stuck in this cycle, and I want to make sure I've seen everything. Anything new would be spectacular to me, simply because it isn't what I've already lived hundreds of times.'" The Narrator contemplated what had been communicated.

"And you really are lonely? You've been trapped this way for an immeasurable amount of time, and you're miserable..." the Narrator hummed thoughtfully. "I'll admit, this isn't the way my story was meant to go. I wanted to give you happiness, Stanley, and freedom. But those can never be real for you. If it will really satisfy you, I'll change my story."

As the Narrator began muttering and mapping out ideas for a new story, something specifically with Stanley's needs in mind, the character himself stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His entire body trembled, and tightness gripped his throat. Dewey beads swelled against his eyelashes. A whimpering cry broke from his lips, and the Narrator softly cleared his throat.

"A warm force gathered around Stanley. It was gentle and welcoming, and though it was invisible to him, it was still present nonetheless. The force shaped into two solid hands. Carefully, they freed Stanley and lifted him into the air." Just as the Narrator had declared, it was so. Stanley shivered against the lulling heat surrounding him. He hiccuped and pushed his face into a hand, his hands scrambling and holding tightly. The Narrator coughed slightly; he seemed slightly troubled at Stanley's reaction.

"At that first, simple touch, it felt like Stanley was finally breathing for the first time. The sensation was incredible; he was seeing color and feeling sunshine on his pale skin. He wept, not knowing what to do with himself." The Narrator breathed out slowly. "Really, Stanley, you're making me feel quite terrible here! How was I to know you suffered this way? Anyway, let's go on with our new story."

"The hands carried Stanley forward through the Mind Control Facility. But just when he thought they would bring him outside, they turned and took him into a room he had never noticed before. The room was pitch black, and so Stanley huddled against tender palms, frightened. But once they passed through that dark hall, they were in a magnificent apartment!" The Narrator sounded incredibly pleased with himself. And it was well deserved.

By apartment, the Narrator apparently meant house. The carpet was fluffy and light; the walls were perfectly wallpapered with intricate red patterns. All of the furniture was mahogany with pearly cushions and fabrics. Crystal vases and potted plants decorated various areas. The air was beautiful, not too cold or too hot. Something smelled faintly of vanilla and brown sugar. The hands gently set Stanley on a plush couch. After several minutes, nothing else happened.

'Narrator?' Stanley thought, calling out in the only way he could. But no voice spoke out overhead, and there was no apparent response. 'Narrator?!' Stanley took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself. But nothing worked, and the panic drowned him like a tsunami. Had the Narrator left him? Was he coming back? Where could he have gone?

"...ley... anley-!... Stanley!" A male voice interrupted, very close to his ear. He jumped suddenly, hiccuping wildly and making horrible noises from his abused throat. The man tutted and gently pulled him in for a firm hug. When they eventually pulled back, Stanley got a good, if a tad blurry, look at his face.

He was middle-aged, with quiet wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. A faint trace of stubble graced his square jawline. He had thick, bushy eyebrows and a large, slightly upturned nose. His ears stuck out a little from the sides of his face; tiny dots of ink littered certain parts of his visage. He had thin lips, almost completely hidden in the entirety of his image, and they were chapped and worn down, clearly bitten on often. The man's eyes were a deep, mocha color, hidden behind a pair of square glasses. A murky red tie was tucked into the man's rosewood suit jacket, making his tanned skin seem to pop forward.

In an instant, Stanley knew this was his Narrator. His hand wavered precariously as he reached forward and began to feel along the man's face, studying the curve of his cheekbones and the firmness of his brow. One of those fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Stanley, you can see perfectly well. You don't need to reassure yourself of my existence." But the man's eyes softened anyway, and he gently grasped Stanley's hand. "It's alright now. I'm here." A moment of understanding passed between them then, and Stanley nodded weakly. This was all so overwhelming. But exciting! And new! But different. And unpredictable...

The Narrator reached behind himself and grabbed a white plastic box. He removed several medical supplies from it, which he used to tend to Stanley's injured ankle. He even gave Stanley some pills to reduce the pain, and even though it was medicine, the character was so grateful to taste something. When everything seemed to be taken care of, the Narrator clapped his hands together and gave Stanley a warm smile.

"C'mon, Stanley! It's time to start our new story..."

-{}-

**Author's Note:**

> Question of the Update: What was your favorite ending to Stanley Parable? I loved the Confusion Ending, where they're just bouncing around, goofing off.


End file.
